Glass Houses
by Amadea
Summary: When Draco and Hermione are trapped in Greenhouse #3 by a thunderstorm, they are forced to spend some quality time alone. Together. Post-War, back for 7th Year.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: _Harry Potter _belongs to J.K. Rowling. It's best that way.

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Glass Houses: Chapter One

Summary: When Draco and Hermione are trapped in Greenhouse #3 by a thunderstorm, they are forced to spend some quality time alone. Together. Does something besides plants start to blossom?

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"Perfect," Draco said acidly, peering out the glass of the greenhouse door. "The grounds are completely flooded."

Behind him, Hermione brushed the soil from her hands and folded her arms across her chest. When Draco glanced over his shoulder and saw her know-it-all expression and the cock of her hip, he rolled his eyes in disbelief and snorted.

"What," he asked, "are you really going to try and tell me you somehow predicted a thunderstorm and you were the only one who knew better?"

"I didn't say a word," Hermione said coolly.

"Trust me, you said plenty."

"I _thought_ quite a lot of things."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I knew it was a bad idea to volunteer to gather belladonna clippings," he grumbled.

"Why did you, then?" Hermione snapped.

"To earn Slytherin some House points for once—balance out the blatant Gryffindor favoritism. Why did _you?_"

"Out of the goodness of my heart," Hermione retorted. "Unlike you, I am not always scheming to get ahead. And I had no idea I'd be stuck with you, obviously."

"Obviously."

For a moment, they stood there listening to the rain sheet down around them, but then Draco rotated slowly on his heel and said, "I bet you wouldn't mind being stuck out here with _Weasley._"

"Because at least Ronald has a sense of humor."

"_Ronald?"_

Hermione's jaw tightened so hard the gnash of her teeth was audible.

"Oh, I see. Having a lover's quarrel, are we? What is it; he wouldn't volunteer because he wanted to stay inside by the fire and play Wizard's Chess with Potter and a hot mug of pumpkin spice? At least I have _ambition._ And, by the way, his sense of humor is practically imperceptible."

Hermione lifted her chin and turned away from him, making small adjustments to the clumps of belladonna they'd collected in baskets.

"Hit close to home, have I?" he drawled. "The difference between you and me, Hermione, is that you _think_ things and I _say _them."

Hermione whirled toward him. "You just shut up about Ron and Harry, Malfoy. I know plenty enough about you and your family to say things that are just as hurtful. The difference between us is that I have integrity. Among other things."

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Isn't it comforting to know we've been having the same argument for seven years?"

"I'm sure it's not."

"But it is." Draco moved toward Hermione, circling around the large potting table in the center of the room, housing piles of soil and large plants that moved and furled of their own accord. "Throughout the years, we've been the only constant. It's a special thing we share."

"As if that's a good thing." Even as she responded, Hermione could see that Draco had been distracted by something.

"Excellent," he noted, sounding perturbed. He lifted one foot experimentally to the tune of an unpleasant squelching sound. "It's flooding."

Hermione followed his gaze to the growing puddles of muddy water on the hard-packed dirt floor of the greenhouse. She wiggled her toes inside her own damp shoes. "It's not _that _far to the castle," she said uncertainly. "I'm just going to make a dash for it—"

Draco shook his head vehemently. "I'm not going out there—"

"I didn't say _you_ had to come," Hermione said peevishly, crossing the room.

"—in hail like this," Draco finished. It was then that Hermione noticed the first loud smack of hail hitting the greenhouse roof. It bounced violently off the siding and Hermione saw that the hail balls were the size of golden snitches.

She clenched and released her hand. She turned around to see that Draco had shoved the plants away to clear a space on the potting table and was pushing loose soil to the ground with a sweep of his arm. "What are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Draco slipped out of his robe and swung it into the air like a bed sheet, letting it settle across the table. He hoisted himself onto the table, drawing his long legs up from the muddy floor. "Saving my shoes from certain ruin." He pulled at his tie, loosening the knot enough that he suddenly looked unkempt. "I would invite you to join me, but…I think you had plans to dash?"

A sharp pop resounded and Hermione cringed, looking up to see that a hail ball had left a crack in the ceiling. Still, she jerked her chin in the air and glanced once more toward the door. She must have looked like she was going to walk out into the storm, because Draco said, "Don't be stupid," with a roll of his eyes.

Hermione tried to hide her relief and cleared a small space for herself on the table. She pulled herself up awkwardly, situating herself by tugging her skirt down over her knees and holding the hem down with a clenched fist. "I hope it's over soon," she groused. "I'd rather be anywhere but here."

For a brief instant, Hermione thought Draco almost looked hurt, but then he just said, "Yes, you'll be wanting to get back to Weasley."

They sat in silence, but every few minutes Draco would rotate his arm from the shoulder or flex the fingers of his left hand. Once, Hermione even saw the black curve of the Dark Mark peeking from the cuff of his sleeve. The next time he flexed his hand, Hermione said, "Is something wrong?"

"What? No."

"You keep—" Hermione imitated the movement.

"My arm's asleep," he replied shortly. But he tugged self-consciously at his sleeve.

Hermione readjusted herself, the hard wood of the table biting into her ankle. "Does it happen a lot?"

"Does _what_ happen a lot?"

"Does your arm fall asleep a lot?"

"Why do you care?" he snapped, but then, several moments later, said, "Sometimes."

"Maybe Madam Pomfrey has something for it," Hermione suggested.

"I doubt it."

"You could ask. If it happens a lot."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"Well, why do you think it happens?"

Draco slammed his palms onto the tabletop and twisted. "Are you kidding me?" His nostrils flared. He jerked up his sleeve, shoving his wrist in her face, the Mark dark and gruesome against the pale skin of his wrist. "_This_ is why. My entire arm feels like a phantom limb more often than not because of _this._ Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what you wanted to see?"

"Draco, _stop it._" Hermione grabbed his arm, the tendons of his wrist tight beneath her fingers. His pulse was hard and erratic. "I didn't mean it that way." Slowly, she released her grip and he sagged tiredly, covering his face with one hand.

"Let's talk about something else," he mumbled. "If that's okay."

"I think that's a good idea."

Draco snorted unhappily. "Except now I can think of _nothing_ else."

Hermione cast around desperately for the right thing to say. "It's not a lover's quarrel," she blurted finally. "Between Ron and I. We're just friends." She felt her face go up in flames. "I think the hail's stopped," she announced suddenly, grabbing her basket of belladonna and practically bounding from the table. "I'll see you back at the castle!"

She left so quickly she didn't see the stricken look on Draco's face.

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	2. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Many thanks to Die Libelle for the title!

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Glass Houses: Chapter Two

The next time Hermione saw Draco since the greenhouse, she was standing in the hallway talking to Professor McGonagall when he rounded the corner and froze like a caught animal. He backed up several steps before turning to disappear.

As much as Hermione was trying to avoid him, she also couldn't stop thinking about him. She kept re-imagining the taut muscles of his arm beneath her hand. The night before, she had even woken from an unsettling dream about him—the planes of his face, the feel of his long-fingered hand as searing and immediate as if it had all really happened.

But she had other things to think about: Crookshanks had been missing all day. Normally it didn't bother her, but lately, Crookshanks had been getting into squabbles with Millicent Bulstrode's cat—that was as big and as aggressive as cats got—and she just wanted it off her mind. She had even asked a few of the other girls from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw if they had seen him around, but no one had.

By the end of the day, Hermione felt as though she'd checked every possibly nook and cranny, inside _and _out. Exhausted, and genuinely starting to worry, she dragged her feet back toward the Great Hall.

Harry and Ron pestered her pleasantly, joking about Bulstrode's cat being too fat to do any real damage and saying that Crookshanks was probably curled up at the foot of her bed right that moment. It was mostly reassuring, although Ron _did_ paint a rather tasteless picture when he suggested that maybe Crookshanks had been caught up by the Whomping Willow and punted so far that when he landed in a few hours he'd be in America.

"I'm sure he'll make some American witch very happy," Ron added.

Hermione pushed the curve of her spoon into her mashed potatoes glumly. "I hope he's leaving a hairball on your pillow right this instant, Ron Weasley."

As distracted as she was by Crookshank's absence, she couldn't help but check over her shoulder several times to look for the familiar flash of Draco's blonde hair at the Slytherin table. Clearly, Crookshanks' absence was not the only one on her mind.

After dinner, she told the boys she would meet them in the common room because she had to stop by the library for a book. She was happily on her way, but stopped abruptly when she heard a soft croon from the hallway leading into the dungeons.

"C'mere," the voice said. "C'mere, Crookshanks…"

Hermione moved slowly down the hallway, craning her neck to see around the corner. She was both surprised—and not—to see Draco crouched on the floor, his hand reaching out to scratch the underside of Crookshanks' furry chin. Hermione's chest clutched uncomfortably. Crookshanks happily rubbed his face into Draco's palm, his purr a happy rumble.

Hermione cleared her throat and Draco's head whipped around as he came to stand, his arm dropping to his side. He cleared his own throat sharply. "I…found your filthy cat." He gestured awkwardly toward the floor, where Crookshanks was sitting with a lifted chin, eyes still closed as though expecting more scratching.

"I see that," Hermione said, trying to ignore the heat in her face. "He's not filthy." Just _looking_ at Draco conjured all sorts of uncomfortable memories from her dream. "I guess it's good that I ran into you, anyhow. I have…something for you." She turned to dig in her book satchel.

Draco looked wary. "For me?"

"Yes," Hermione said, retrieving a dark blue bottle from her bag and holding it out. "Take a teaspoon every day. It should help."

"With what? Where did you get this?" Draco said, turning the bottle over in his hand. There was no label.

"With your…" Hermione shifted her arm awkwardly. "With the tingling. I got it from Professor McGonagall."

"I _thought_ you had gone to tell her," Draco said accusingly. "I saw you talking with her."

"Tell her what?"

"About the way I yelled the other day."

"What? No! I didn't want to lose you points—you're plenty capable of that on your own." Hermione clenched her empty hands. "She doesn't even know that's for you."

"What is it?" He hefted the bottle experimentally. It was small, and fairly light.

"It's chamomile and lavender extract. I used it before, when I was feeling overwhelmed with all my schoolwork in Third Year, but I think it will help."

"It's just…_flowers_?" Draco said skeptically.

Hermione bristled. "I was just trying to be nice. Don't use it if you don't like it."

She turned to leave, but he caught at her wrist lightly and a shiver passed down Hermione's spine. "I meant, thank you."

Hermione swiveled back around to face him, finding him unexpectedly close. His breath was warm across her temple and her mind flashed back to her dream from the night before. She bit down, hard, on her inner cheek. "You're so rude, Malfoy."

"Old habit."

"Let go," Hermione said, and he did, but not before stroking his thumb once across the pulse point of her wrist. "Crookshanks," Hermione croaked, finding that she had lost her voice. "We're leaving."

As Hermione made her way briskly back to the Gryffindor common room—completely forgetting her book—with Crookshanks lollygagging behind, she told herself, _I've done my duty. I've offered him help and now I'm done. I don't need to be inquiring after his well-being. Or even thinking about it. Draco's a grown man, now, and can—_

-but she had to stop _that _line of thought in its tracks because thinking about Draco as a grown man was dangerous territory. So flustered was she that, when she got to the portrait of the Fat Lady, Hermione had to take a moment to remember the password. The sound of the Fat Lady clucking her tongue at her followed her all the way to bed.

As soon as Hermione closed her eyes, all she could see was Draco…the pale dunes of his cheekbones, the hard Adam's apple of his throat, the surprisingly strong line of his wrist. Hermione traced her own wrist where he'd touched it and shivered again at the memory. She was embarrassed that she found herself wanting to dream about him again. It was like that old saying, she thought tiredly: _Don't think of an elephant._ And of course, once someone says that, that's _all _you can think about.

Hermione had been thinking about elephants all day.

Really attractive ones that were sweet to her cat.

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	3. Chapter Three

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Glass Houses: Chapter Three

Despite a resolution to thank Draco for finding Crookshanks, Hermione hardly even saw him for the whole week. She spent so much time wondering if she would run into him, and thinking about what she would say, that when it kept _not _happening, she started to feel resentful, and even snappish. As if he was somehow supposed to _know _that she wanted to see him but could not instigate it herself. In fact, it wasn't until she volunteered to collect more belladonna for the Fourth Years' potions kits that they were alone in the same place together.

Hermione had to admit to herself that, perhaps this time, she had volunteered in the hopes of running into Draco again. However, she had been trimming the plants in Greenhouse #3 for maybe 15 minutes and seen hide nor hair of another student, much less Draco, when suddenly the glass door swung inward with a gust of chilly air. She looked up to find Draco framed in the doorway, dressed all in black except for the dark ribbon of green in his tie.

"Professor Sprout said I could find you here," he said, his clipped, business-like tone familiar, and not in an entirely unpleasant way. He stepped into the greenhouse and let the door fall shut behind him.

"Yes," Hermione intoned. "Because apparently I'm the only student who _hasn't _used up their quota of goodwill yet. I think I'm the only one left volunteering."

"Don't be judgmental—prejudice doesn't look good on you," Draco said snarkily. "And everyone knows you're just padding your curriculum vitae." He said this last without much heat.

Hermione snapped a belladonna plant in half and braced her hands on the table, turning to look at him disbelievingly. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." She smoothed a hand over her hair, breathing fast and shallow. Why was she so angry? Hadn't she _wanted _to see him? And then she realized that _was _why she was angry. She wanted to see him _too _badly, and it made her terribly uncomfortable.

"Yes, and people who live in the real world shouldn't rely on primary school proverbs to make their point."

"Are you just here to argue with me?"

"No. To…thank you," he said curtly. "Whatever it was that you gave me helped. A little." He flexed his fingers experimentally. "It hasn't been happening as much lately."

"Oh?" Hermione focused on clipping the belladonna and arranging it gently in her basket.

"So…thank you."

"You're welcome." _Snip. Snip. _"And thank you for finding Crookshanks."

"Of course."

Hermione went to cut more belladonna, but then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Draco rotate his shoulder in that same familiar way and she lifted her head sharply. "It didn't actually help, did it," she said flatly, turning to face him.

He looked away uncomfortably, but when he looked back, his face was arranged in a haughty expression. "No. But my parents raised me well enough—" he flexed his fingers again, almost violently, his expression becoming a grimace—"to know that I ought to thank people."

"So, you're not really grateful at all."

"I'm here, aren't I?" he said harshly, his carefully superior expression slipping. They stared at one another for a long time, and slowly, Draco's fists unclenched and his shoulders dropped. He must have realized how ungenerous his words sounded, hanging in the frosty air of the green house, because he said, "I should go."

"No. Thank me properly," Hermione said, surprising herself with her boldness. Her heart hammered in her throat and she put the shears on the table with an unsteady hand.

"What do you mean?" A frown creased his brow, but he was studying her appraisingly.

"Kiss me."

Draco sucked in a breath, but wasted no time—he crossed the room in three strides, pressing his mouth to hers without hesitation. His kiss was firm, and Hermione's lips opened under his with a shaky exhale. The emotional rush of finally touching him the way she had imagined countless times in the past week left her breathless. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, and kissed him back feverishly. He crushed her to him, his lean thighs flush with hers. They were so close it felt their ribs were in danger of catching on one another. She gripped his upper arm, pulling him to her, and the kiss grew more urgent. He backed her against the wall of the greenhouse, rattling a rack of exotic ferns. They were showered by a sprinkling of dirt, but neither of them noticed. Draco's hands tangled in her hair and Hermione bit at his lower lip, drawing his tongue into her mouth. He tasted faintly of black licorice and earl grey tea, and the kiss turned deep and searching as he rocked against her. He pulled back from the kiss, his hands sliding down her arms to lightly clasp each of her wrists and bring them above her head. Her chest rose and fell rapidly against his, and she knew he could feel her pulse racing. He held her wrists there with one hand, and with the other, drew a soft line from her jaw to her neck to her collarbone to the front of her sweater. She pressed into his hand, his fingers electric even through the wool of her sweater. He ducked to kiss her again. A shudder rolled through her body and Draco made a small noise in the back of his throat.

"I had a dream like this," Hermione confessed breathlessly against his mouth and Draco's normally pale grey eyes went dark.

"Did you?" he nuzzled the soft, warm spot below her ear and pressed a kiss to the column of her throat. She swallowed hard, nodding. "What else happened in your dream?"

"Lots of good things."

"Show me."

"Okay. Well." Draco released her wrists and she swallowed again, nervously. "Let me see your hand," she said. "No, the other one, your left hand," she corrected, when he held out his right. Slowly, she unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve. When she began to roll it up, Draco clamped a hand down on his wrist, hard.

"_No._"

"Please?"

"I don't want to think about it right now. Knowing it's there reminds me that I'm a terrible person."

Hermione traced a finger across the lines of his palm. Goosebumps rose along his arm. "But you're not. A terrible person, I mean."

Draco met her gaze in surprise, his own eyes flickering back and forth between hers. Eventually, he lifted the grip on his sleeve and Hermione continued to roll up the soft black material, slowly revealing the Dark Mark.

She traced the outline of the Mark with her fingertip, and he inhaled sharply. "You have to take away its power," Hermione instructed evenly. "Or you will hate yourself forever. Don't you sometimes think your arm is like this because of an emotional disconnect?" She bent over his arm, her curly mess of hair falling forward. She pressed a kiss to his palm, and then to his forearm, just below the Mark.

Draco's eyes were shut, his face turned sharply away. He was trembling.

"Have you ever considered," Hermione said softly, "that the reason it sometimes feels like a phantom is that you just need someone to hold your hand and remind you it's there?" She held out her hand to him, and he lifted damp lashes to meet her gaze.

"And you're offering?"

"Well…yes." Hermione bobbed the flat of her hand up and down to indicate he should take it. He studied her face a moment, almost warily, but then he placed his hand in hers, winding their fingers together. Hermione squeezed his hand and he exhaled loudly, his own grip spasming tightly.

"And this is what you dreamed about?" he asked skeptically.

"Well…no. I dreamed that there was a storm inside me, a hurricane, and you were there, with your lovely hands, and you were…" Hermione trailed off. "Maybe we should go back to the castle."

"What?" Draco said, glancing outside at the pale rays of sun filtering through the glass. "In this weather? Are you kidding? We're trapped here for at least an hour."

"In that case, I'll just show you what I dreamed about," Hermione said and kissed him hard, their hands still tightly intertwined.

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_Fin._


End file.
